


Make My Heart Beat Double-Time

by startwithsparks



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Dom Drop, Dom/sub, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-06
Updated: 2011-08-06
Packaged: 2017-10-22 06:50:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/235091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startwithsparks/pseuds/startwithsparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's time in the Afghanistan might have taught him how to go without sleep or regular meals, but there are some things military training simply couldn't prepare him for - one of those things is a bored Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make My Heart Beat Double-Time

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6375.html?thread=27618791#t27618791) on the [sherlockbbc_fic](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/) kink meme.

There were times when John felt like Sherlock was two completely different people, somehow inhabiting one body. At times he honestly didn't think he would be surprised if that _was_ the issue. The first Sherlock existed during the course of a case - focused, driven, dedicated and foregoing any practical human need like food and sleep and sometimes even coming home at night. It was the Sherlock who John had become accustomed to most immediately and he found the rush of being around him heady and intoxicating. Exhausting, yes, it was definitely exhausting to constantly be one step and several thoughts behind Sherlock, but it was never boring. The second Sherlock existed in the quiet lull between cases - shuffling aimlessly around the flat in his bare feet and bathrobe, muttering to himself, indulging in the destruction of person and property in the simple course of boredom all while leaving his tea cups and wine glasses sitting here and there and playing shrill laments on the violin, seemingly, just to annoy his roommate.

As a result of this, John almost had to split himself into two people just to deal with Sherlock's rather bipolar shifts in mood. He'd slowly started adjusting his eating and sleeping schedules to accommodate not doing so for long periods of time or being forced to do so in short, quick intervals. Much of it wasn't even new training, it was simply reminding himself how to be alert, how to force his mind to work at its peak performance when under the most intense pressure again. No one who hadn't seen combat could live with Sherlock while he was one a case. And it really was amazing how much good a twenty minute nap and a protein bar could do when your had your body convinced that was all it was going to get. Mind over matter, John kept telling himself. The sooner they solved this, the sooner he could sleep in his own bed again.

But during the time between cases, that blessed time when John ate and slept like a normal human and sometimes managed to hold down a normal job without worrying too much about Sherlock shooting holes in their wall (he had moved the gun to a secret location, which he had faith would take Sherlock a couple days to locate if he even bothered looking for it at all), he knew that he was always going to wake up or come home to an flat that was less than tidy and something strange in their refrigerator (or microwave or shower or fireplace or middle of the floor) and his roommate shuffling around the place like a puppy who had lost his favorite chew-toy. He could busy himself with all manner of figuring and deducing but John found that - to mix metaphors - Sherlock also had the tendency to strongly resemble a three-year-old, completely unable to occupy himself with anything for any length of time unless someone else was playing an active role in his entertainment. Unfortunately, and to his eternal dismay, John was _convenient_ to him.

He'd been warned that eventually what Sherlock did with his time would no longer be enough to satisfy him and he would eventually escalate to something more extreme. John had hope that his presence might circumvent that, that he could be the calm, cautious one of the two of them who actually had a bit of sense in his head. Of course, his utter inability to say no to anything that was requested of him probably wouldn't help much with all of that, but he did _try_ to maintain some sense of control around the flat or at least put Sherlock in line when he thought he needed it - which was, to be honest, almost all of the time he wasn't working and at least some of the time he _was_ working. Eventually, though, the word of warning he was issued less than twenty-four hours after meeting the other man was proven to be, at least in a sense, correct.

Sherlock slammed the riding crop down on the kitchen table next to where John had set his cup while he toiled away on his blog. He hadn't been feeling particularly creative that morning so the entry was simply titled "The Israeli Interpreter", which he had a thought to change once he was finished and feeling a bit more clever. However, the thwack of leather against wood jarred him out of his thoughts, causing a suddenly misspelled word an a bump of his elbow against the edge of the table. Rubbing away the tingle, he looked up at Sherlock and then let his gaze travel down the man's extended arm to where his palm still rest in the middle of the crop's handle. John blinked.

"What the hell is this?"

"It's a riding crop, what does it look like?" Sherlock retorted in that obnoxiously patronizing way he often did.

"Well I know what it _is_ ," John sputtered in return, "but why do you _have_ it and why is it on our kitchen table? Where we _eat_."

"We hardly ever eat here John, and you know it."

John just leveled a glare at Sherlock who sighed and rolled his eyes.

"I bought it some months ago to test a man's alibi and I haven't seen cause to get rid of it - you never know when you're going to need such a thing."

Still gaping, "Well I have it on very good authority that I know when I'm _not_ going to need one, and that's ever."

Sherlock smirked, even more patronizing than his tone, "Are you sure about that."

"Yes," John glared, hard. "Now what is it doing on the table?"

Sherlock cleared his throat gently as he pulled out a chair and sat, his fingers idly twirling the long loop at the end around and around as he cocked his head and watched John's expression. "You're uncomfortable."

"You're diverting. Answer the question."

"Oh fine," he sighed, sounding bored, "if you're so reticent... I'd like you to use it. On me."

John had been expecting just about every answer _except_ that one and was glad that he was sitting down there was nothing in his hands to drop at the moment. He still coughed, sputtered a bit in shock as a blush rose to his cheeks. "I-" he started, shaking his head as though he were trying to rattle the thoughts into their proper order. " _Why_?"

Another sigh, clearly Sherlock didn't expect John to simply answer his request with unbridled enthusiasm (it would have been nice, but he didn't _expect_ it), but he really hated answering inane questions all the time when one should know by now to simply accept the fact that he had a perfectly good reason for everything he did and be done with it. John, though... John was never that easy. "I don't suppose 'because I want you to' will be a suitable answer."

"Hardly!"

"Hm, I didn't think so. Well then, if you want me to be honest with you, it's because I feel as though I'm slipping into a bit of a melancholy. I don't like languishing, I don't like feeling under-stimulated..."

"Then why don't you go get a hooker?" John asked, brows furrowing and lips pressing into a thin line.

"Oh god, John, _no_ \- the uncleanliness."

"You have no problem cavorting with the homeless," he offered.

"Yes, but I'm not putting my _cock_ in them."

John simply stared, mouth agape and what amounted to a half-choked off 'huh' coming out with his first breath. He was struck speechless. Shifting a little, he tilted his head to one side, brow knitting further, and drew in a breath to say something that his brain apparently canceled before it ever got to his tongue. He finally pressed his lips together again and huffed, sitting back in his chair. Thankfully, Sherlock saved him from floundering for a response.

"Besides," he continued, waving his hand dismissively, "you're the only person I would trust to do this. I _am_ putting my flesh in your hands after all and I think by this point I have done that enough in practical conditions that I can also trust you to take care in a more controlled environment, provided you don't have some sort of objection to consensual violence which - considering you've shot at least one man that I know of - I rather doubt will be a problem."

"So just to be clear, you want me to beat you?" he asked.

"Essentially."

"And you get off on this?"

"When administered by the right hands, yes."

John nodded, contemplating the crop on the table with a little more thought now. He'd honestly never really thought about this before. His life had been school, the military and then the battlefield with very little opportunity or desire for romance in there and certainly not the kind of relationship that would involve as much trust between two people as this did. He looked up at Sherlock. The only person he trusted? That wasn't hard to believe, but it still came as a shock to him to hear it. That really didn't seem like the kind of thing the other man would even speak about so openly and yet it had been slipped in there with such nonchalance that John didn't even really hear it until he was thinking about it. He didn't find himself horrified at the idea or even hesitant. He'd been shocked at first, yes, a strange sort of understanding settled on him and he didn't see any reason why he should refuse. Though he was a bit curious about something...

"Tell me," John finally spoke again, "in all your deduction, what makes you think that you have a chance of me saying yes to this?"

Sherlock pressed his hands together, steepling them under his bottom lip and resting his elbows on the table. "The way you light up when someone mentions danger, how you're always trying to get your head into the puzzle - however difficult it might be at the time - and the lilt of joy in your voice when you're telling me off for doing something that you seem to think is obnoxious or socially irresponsible. We've been through this before, John - you like it as much as I do, the rush of adrenaline and the thrill of it all. You're vibrant and alert and confident when you're right in the middle of the fray and I _like_ that. It's exciting to watch."

He did his best to control a blush as he scoffed instead. "You don't have time to watch while you're on a case, you're too lost in the details."

"I have time to watch anything I want to watch whether I'm on a case or not," he retorted stubbornly, and with a little pout for good measure.

John took a deep breath and sighed. "Alright, how do we do this?"

Sherlock grinned, pleased as a cat who'd got the canary _and_ the cream that he'd gotten John to agree. But it was alright, John liked that uninhibited smile of joy that the other man so rarely got. He scoot his chair closer and leaned in, like he was conspiring. "There are a lot of details to take into account, little things like safe-words and settings and annoyingly fabricated acts that people play to make it seem more theatrical - I don't care for any of that, it's excessive and unnecessary. I don't need to act anything and as such I don't need any word other than _stop_ to tell you when I've had enough and _harder_ to tell you when I haven't," he explained. John was lost, but he continued listening anyhow. "John," he said pointedly, like this was the part he really needed to pay attention to - and so he did, "It's a matter of control, to be perfectly honest, and it can get very claustrophobic in my head sometimes, having someone strip that control away from me is very freeing. It's like that first moment you realize a headache is gone. And as I said, I wouldn't trust anyone else with that task."

And _that_ was something John understood - the need to release control. His life after getting back from Afghanistan had all been a matter of carefully controlling every little thing and the same regimented schedule and day to day life as his days in the service had been. It took meeting Sherlock and being swept up in the calamity of his life to let go of that meticulous order and regime and just _be_. He understood that someone else might need that same release and who was he to fault them for how they attained it? This was no less insane than running into some unknown danger, blindly trusting someone he'd met mere hours before.

John nodded. "Alright. I'll do it. But I want you to promise me that you'll say stop the moment it's not going well, alright?"

"Of course, I promise," Sherlock answered, getting up from the table and making his way towards his bedroom, leaving John to pick up the crop and close his laptop on the way out.

By the time he'd gotten to the bedroom, Sherlock had already stripped off his shirt and was shuffling his bottoms off as well. John merely stood there and watched, unsure of what he was supposed to do for a moment and trying desperately not to blush when Sherlock's shorts dropped to the floor and the other man was standing there completely naked in front of him. John cleared his throat and closed the door behind him. He edge the wall of the room, wringing the end of the crop in his hands.

"On the floor, then..." John started, the hesitance in his voice apparently obvious, because Sherlock just quirked an eyebrow at him in return and shook his head.

"No, no - you're not in the least convincing like that. You have to say it like you really mean it or why would anyone ever want to follow a command that was--" he started, though he was abruptly cut off.

"Shut up, Sherlock..." John replied, taking some amount of pride in the way the other man's jaw snapped shut on command. "You always think you're right about everything - did it ever occur to you, for a moment, to let someone _else_ be right for a change? Or do you have so much to prove to everyone else that you can't stand allowing someone the satisfaction of having a little pride in themselves?" Damn, John thought, this really _was_ freeing - and the look on Sherlock's face, the way his eyes glinted with excitement, left no doubt in John's mind that he was on the right track.

"Down," he said, motioning to the floor with the end of the crop. Sherlock didn't even hesitate before he dropped to his knees, but John shook his head and gave the other man a firm slap on the arm with the end of the crop. "No, _down_ , all the way. You bloody well belong on the floor."

He heard Sherlock muffle a groan as he went onto his hands and knees and John let himself sigh a little in relief at the fact that he was actually doing this to the other man's satisfaction and not making a complete ass out of himself. So, maybe he had been right... maybe John _did_ enjoy this sort of thing. Leave it to Sherlock to figure that one out. He circled his way around the other man, using the time to inspect him to also gather his thoughts about the next thing he was going to say. Pausing at Sherlock's head, he extended the crop to touch the end under the man's chin and slowly tilt it upwards until their gazes met.

"You really _are_ a freak, you know? You mock people for being too human because you know that you were robbed of the chance to ever be human yourself and so _this_ ," he hit Sherlock gently in the hip with the end of the crop, "this is the only way you can feel connected to a human being at all. Isn't it? Don't bother answering, we both know it's true. And you also know that you would do absolutely anything I asked you do right now, don't you?" he asked. When he was answered with only a faint nod he tapped the crop under Sherlock's chin. "I _did_ want an answer this time."

"Yes," Sherlock answered simply, his voice a little rough already. John liked it, it sent a thrill up his arms and tugged a smirk at the corner of his lips.

"I could utterly humiliate you right now and you'd let me do it, wouldn't you?"

This time it took a moment longer for Sherlock to answer as he swallowed a hard lump in his throat back. "Yes," he finally said.

John crouched down, letting the crop rest across his knees. He reached out and slipped his fingers into Sherlock's curly hair, twisting his head a bit to the side to expose the long line of neck that he always enjoyed so much. "But you know why I won't do that?"

"Because I trust you," he answered, voice soft that time, though it did nothing to hide the edge of excitement.

"Exactly." John let go of his hair, running his fingers through the other man's hair and down his neck before standing; as he did, he shoved Sherlock's head downwards, watching with a pleased expression as the man went down off his hands and onto his elbows before John started to circle again. "When we were out the other day, you mentioned what your favorite number was, do you remember what you told me?" he asked, tapping the crop against his hand, getting a feel for just how much weight distribution it held before he struck.

Sherlock took a deep breath and looked up towards the ceiling. "Twenty-three."

"Seems like a good enough number. Twenty-three. You'll take them all, no excuses. Understood?" But of course John had faith they both knew he didn't mean that with any seriousness at all. He had promised to stop at the mere utterance of the word and that remained true.

"Understood," Sherlock repeated with a nod.

"Count for me, out loud."

This was a bit of an odd angle to be at, John thought, but he knew that the downward swings would cause him to lose some momentum and the fact that he would be hitting at the end of his reach would make certain that he didn't repeatedly hit Sherlock with the hard leather-wrapped-wood rod that made up the body of the crop. It was a well thought out position, sure enough, and John had to admit he didn't mind the view. With a deep breath he drew the crop back and, heart beating in his ears, struck downwards onto Sherlock's backside.

The man gasped and arched, fingers digging into the carpet and John only barely here the number _one_ said aloud. He licked across his suddenly dry lips and pulled back to strike again: _two_. By _ten_ , he was admiring the square-shaped red marks that were littering Sherlock's backside and thighs, but he was still landing blows with just as much force as the first two and Sherlock's voice was still strong, though edged with a moan, every time he read off another number. At _seventeen_ , John felt a bead of sweat roll down his temple and he barely paused to wipe it away before drawing down _eighteen_. At _twenty_ , he feared he'd broken skin and by _twenty-three_ he could see proof of the matter, but Sherlock still hadn't told him to stop. John's fingers gripped around the leather handle and he realized that his heart was going at a slow, steady pace. He only just heard the faint instruction to "don't stop" over the sound of blood drumming in his ears. They were at _thirty-seven_ before Sherlock begged through grit teeth for John to relent and he did, dropping the crop immediately to the floor and rushing around to Sherlock's head, dropping to his knees and pushing damp curls back from the man's forehead.

"Are you alright?"

Sherlock nodded weakly, pushing up off his elbows with a wince and clutching at John's shirt. With a shaky exhale, he rest his forehead against the other man's shoulder, John's arms wrapping snugly around his shoulders as he pet the back of the man's neck affectionately. "And you thought you wouldn't have it in you," he finally murmured, his already deep voice now rougher and a bit strained.

"Did I hurt you?" John asked, largely ignoring the compliment.

"Of course you did, that's the point..."

"No, I mean, did I _seriously_ injure you at all. Are you going to be alright?"

"John, shh - let me enjoy the moment."

Sherlock shifted, resting on one hip with his hands still clenched in John's shirt for stability and his head still on his shoulder as well. As he moved, John could see the streak of wet, white, against Sherlock's thigh and almost asked at what point he'd - well, John was a bit baffled.

"Around thirty-four," Sherlock answered, eyes still closed, but maybe he'd felt John's breathing or his heartbeat quicken.

Resting his back against the end of the bed, John wrapped an arm around Sherlock's shoulders and let him there, letting him bask in or recover from the pain, whichever. His mouth felt dry and he was uncomfortably overheated, sweat sticking his shirt to the back of his neck. The longer he sat there, the more uncomfortable it became - staring at the crop with some amount of self-doubt and wondering where he'd dredged up all those horrible things to say and why he'd enjoyed saying them so much. He knew he didn't feel that way but it had to come from _somewhere_ , and as liberating as it had been at the moment, now he just felt this uneasy tension in his chest. His heart beat had apparently caught up with how slow it had been going during the whole scene, because now it felt like it was going double-time. He felt Sherlock shift again next to him.

"Why are you anxious?" he asked. He'd been laying there the whole time listening to John's heartbeat and the rhythm of his breathing.

"I'm not sure," John answered honestly.

"Do you always crash this fast from an adrenaline rush?"

John blinked and shook his head, arm tightening a bit more. "No. No, every other time I've been doing something useful - helping someone, helping _you_ and so I felt satisfied afterwards. Now I just... Are you _certain_ I didn't really hurt you?"

Sherlock lifted his head. "I wouldn't have _let_ you, John. You know it's almost a compliment when _you_ call me a freak."

John chuckled despite himself, rubbing at his forehead. "I feel like I'm having a heart-attack."

"I've heard that's normal," Sherlock retorted. "You drink too much coffee, you need to keep yourself better hydrated. There's orange juice in the refrigerator?"

"Go get it," John said, phrased in the form of an order.

Sherlock smirked. "Yes, sir."

Still naked, pausing for only a moment to grab a tissue and wipe the come off his thigh, he made his way out of the bedroom, leaving John to sit there with his knees drawn up to his chest and his head dropped back onto Sherlock's bed. He took a deep breath a sighed, holding his hands up. They weren't shaking. He felt like they should be, but they weren't. His shoulder ached where the bullet wound still was and for some reason John checked for blood that he knew wouldn't be there. His fingers slicked through his hair, rubbed over the back of his neck and he let his head drop forward between his knees. He felt guilty because he thought he should be the one comforting Sherlock, not the other way around - and guilt definitely did not help when it only compounded his anxiety. John wasn't regretting doing it - not in the least - it was just, as he was told, an unexpected crash from the rush of chemicals to his brain and, as a doctor, he should know how to correct this but he really just wanted to curl up on Sherlock's bed and wait for his levels to come back to normal.

He didn't get the opportunity. A moment later, the door opened again and Sherlock dropped to his knees with a glass or orange juice and a biscuit. "Here," he said. "I caught a glance of myself in the mirror on the way past - you do beautiful work."

John rolled his eyes and lifted the glass to his lips. "You're incorrigible."

"Maybe if you'd gone to forty, I wouldn't be."

"Maybe if you hadn't said stop-" John begun, only to be cut off with a brief kiss before Sherlock shuffled away again to find shorts and a pair of trousers that wouldn't aggravate the welts on his backside. John sat there, staring, panic suddenly forgotten, and finished his biscuit.


End file.
